Twist
by Pyrasaur
Summary: Fey had gotten it into her head to be determined and Edgeworth knew what that meant.


Based on a kinkmeme prompt: _YOUR HONOR_

_I OBJECT ON THE GROUNDS THAT THE DEFENSE IS A SEXY, SEXY BEAST AND I WOULD LIKE TO BE INSIDE OF HER._

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><p>Edgeworth couldn't cram his trial notes into his briefcase fast enough. They crumpled disgracefully - but it didn't matter, he'd photocopy new ones. He needed to be out of this courtroom, which had an increasing lack of air.<p>

Heels followed him, _click-clack_ through the crowds, fast and determined. Damnation, Fey had gotten it into her head to be _determined_ and he knew what that meant. He sped his pace.

"Edgeworth!"

His gut knotted around that voice.

"I have a prior engagement," Edgeworth bit out. He kept walking, long strides, head high. Brisk but without desperation, he hoped.

"_Oh_ no, you're not getting away that easily."

He ground his teeth. He kept walking. "I've wasted enough of my time with you today, Ms. Fey."

The clacking heels drew closer. Panic blurred Edgeworth's vision: he turned a crisp right angle, caught a doorknob, opened it to find the stairwell-

Somewhere else entirely, because he had made a critical error and walked into a blasted broom closet. He turned, and his heart froze in his chest as he saw narrow walls with one way out, and Mia Fey in the middle of it, hair flaring around her with momentum, eyes flashing.

"No," she said, "I want the truth."

"There is nothing to discuss." Edgeworth's voice rang tinny in his ears; this closet had barely enough space for two people; the air hung stale with dust. He stood firm, lifting his chin.

"There's plenty to discuss." She stalked forward. "Did you really think I'd just ignore that?"

There was something visceral about that look, a blood-deep understanding that she was hungry for answers. Edgeworth forced rebuttal out of his mouth - he was close to spluttering, he could feel the lack of logic here and that meant he had little to cling to.

"This is not the time nor the place, Ms. Fey. If there is something you wish to discuss-"

"And give you time to explain your statement away? I don't think so."

"You-" His mind snatched for arguments, came up empty, stumbled and landed on its feet. "It was a mere slip of the tongue."

"_The defense,_" she recited, rough in the back of her throat, "_Is a sexy, sexy beast. And I would like to be inside of her._ That sounds pretty decisive to me, Edgeworth."

He knotted tighter inside, all heat and panic as Fey laid a palm on his chest and pushed - gently, too gently.

"A thoroughly mortifying slip of the tongue," he spat, broom handles digging into his back. "But still-"

The door eased itself closed. He had a last glimpse of Fey's dark eyes skewering him, and then the world turned to silhouette and presence.

"Did you think I'd do this?"

"No _sane_ person would do this, in a closet of all places."

"You picked the spot."

"That's not-"

Movement on his chest. That was her hand, curling to grasp the edge of his silk vest, _stroking_ it. Words dried up in Edgeworth's mouth. Oh, he ached with anticipation and his cheeks burned with shame; thoughts of her lush body returned, fluttering around him like harpies. There was a distant clatter as his briefcase fell from his hand.

"Allow me to present a theory, Mr. Edgeworth. Your statement was unintentional, but still the truth. Why else would you put such a sudden effort into avoiding me and denying that there's anything to discuss?"

She was wretchedly correct. The world was only Edgeworth's thunderous breathing and the hand sliding down his clothing. There wasn't enough air here and he could imagine the fierce smirk Fey wore, feel the body heat in the air, smell the delicate floral of her shampoo. Or perhaps that was some other personal hygiene product. Maybe her skin would _taste_ like that.

"Your reasoning," Edgeworth rasped, "Is sound." Her reasoning typically was sound - it was the mad urge to chase things that disgraced her.

She paused. She sounded softer when she spoke again, the purr returning. "I think we can come to some kind of arrangement."

"I don't take part in irresponsible behaviour."

"What sort of behaviour do you mean, exactly?"

He paused in the hot, close darkness, frowning. "You know perfectly well what I mean. It can only be the sort of behaviour that results from ... impulsive close contact."

Hands laid on the back of his neck. Fabric moved by audible fractions and there was close contact indeed, the space between them suddenly thin and flower-scented. The female body was yielding by design but if he had let his imagination run this far, if he had guessed at this sensation of large, soft breasts pressing flat against him-

"What if this isn't all impulse," she said, breath touching his face. "I might have thought about it, too."

Thinking moves through didn't seem like Fey's style. However, style was a far-off concept meant for rational places. This was whim-sudden and clandestine; the word _tryst_ sprang to mind, considering the way he was so full of rushing blood that he could barely think.

"Are you saying this is premeditated, Fey?"

"You've been doing some premeditating yourself. I have a confession and witnesses."

Touch stole under his vest, between humid fabric, entirely too close to his skin. She shifted in the dark, moving her head - Fey's smile piled onto the other images, the subtle shifting of her glossed lips.

She hadn't denied that this was premeditated. Mia Fey had thought about chasing him down.

"Alright," Edgeworth said. He sounded like someone admitting defeat, a relief and a shame in his own ears. "Then, neither of us is innocent. If we can reach some sort of bargain-"

The gravity didn't hit him until her arms wound around his neck, until she molded closer and convinced him to let her tongue into his mouth. Just like he had guessed, he thought distant as his hands found her curves: Fey did everything with fervor, did everything like her life was staked on the effort. Nails ran up his neck and a pleasurable shudder followed. She hitched a knee on him, tilting so her hips matched against his, obscene through business clothing. This was mimicry of an _act_. This was too much like his thoughts and Edgeworth suspected she knew that, thinking in between the friction and heat and the way it didn't seem to matter who they were. Just consenting adults.

Suddenly, she pulled away. She rummaged and slipped something into his jacket pocket, a last nudge of contact.

"I'm willing to negotiate, Mr. Edgeworth," she said, "If you are." She opened the door with a gust of tepid air, smirking feline over her shoulder. Her heels clicked away as the dark closed back in. Fey had just won. Edgeworth had conceded to the defense, he realized, in every sense of the word.

Unfortunately, due to complications of that strange, delicious moment, Edgeworth would need to wait a few minutes before he could exit the closet. Fey wasn't above a stunt like this. He should have known. He straightened his jacket, and grasped about until he found his briefcase, and fixed the door with a hard glare. This would be a challenge to explain to any janitorial staff who might happen by.

For the rest of that day, Fey's business card sat his pocket, brick-like. He put it face-down in a drawer and thought good riddance to it, while arranging to have some of his folly stricken from court record.

Two weeks later, when the sting of his pride had dulled somewhat, he called her.


End file.
